


Magic At His Fingertips

by Ramasi



Series: Destiny and Lying Dragons [12]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Dominance, M/M, PWP, Schmoop, Season/Series 01, Submission, future!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramasi/pseuds/Ramasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin shares his magic with Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic At His Fingertips

_This._

Full moon outside, so that pale, silvery light is generously pouring through the open window, yet he's decided that it's not enough, and so there's a gentle, warm glow surrounding the bed, which illuminates the body spread out before him.

The latter is naked safe for the red handkerchief around his neck; his arms are pinned down next to his head; his breath comes in ragged, quick gasps that he vainly tries to steady, chest rising and falling almost convulsively; his legs are spread out, held in place by invisible bounds of his own creation. His erection, red and pulsating, stands out against the pale skin of his stomach.

Arthur smiles. Naked as well, kneeling between the warlock's spread legs, he leans forwards to run a teasing hand down his side, nails on skin and skin on skin. Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and bucks up, ineffectually, lift his upper body, which has more give, off the bed when Arthur's fingers edge closer, over his bare stomach, never quite touching were he wants.

"Look at me," Arthur demands, enunciating every word.

Merlin takes a few deep but still hasty breaths and obeys; his blue eyes are laced with gold, the steady, shimmering glow of an ongoing spell. There was a time, not so long ago, when this would have frightened Arthur, this evidence of a alien force within Merlin, but he knows better now, knows how intrinsically magic is part of Merlin; like – _more so_ than a limb, like the conscious movement of a limb, or like the desire that flows through him at this very moment, more evident than even the magic.

Merlin's gaze travels down his body, slowly, and up again, to meet his eyes, and the look in them is sharp despite the swimming gold and the clouding desire, and a little petulant; his lips are trembling, slightly – on purpose, Arthur thinks absently, Merlin knows his weaknesses –; he hadn't meant to, not yet, but before he can think, he has leant down to cover his lips with his, his back curved above the taller body, so there is no contact between their bodies safe for their joined lips. Merlin kisses back, hungrily, pushes up in a futile attempt to force more contact.

Sometimes, Arthur finds it too hard to resist and to drag out the wait up to the breaking point, and simply orders: "loose everything"; and then all magical restrains and supernatural surroundings fall, and often Merlin throws all the suddenly freed energy at him, and then Arthur can feel magic – can feel _Merlin_ soar through him and barely notices it over the sudden bliss of unrestrained, physical touch, Merlin's skin under his lips, Merlin's arms around him, oddly gentle despite the wildness, Merlin's cock rubbing against his own, ...

But not this time. Instead, he slowly moves his lips to the edge of Merlin's mouth, licks at his outer lips, kisses his way up to his cheek; Merlin sighs and lets his head fall back down, presses it into the cushion as if to force himself not to move, while Arthur kisses and licks his way to his ear – he knows that Merlin can feel his smile – and whispers the word.

He knows many of them by heart by now, though, when he's less distracted, Merlin mocks his pronunciation. Now, all the warlock does is repeating the word, with a voice already a little constrained in anticipation of what is to follow, and – Arthur has pushed himself back up just to see this – for a moment his eyes glow brighter and at the same time the tissue around his necks draws closer, tighter around his neck.

Arthur shifts his body's weight a little, so he can lift one hand and push it between the red scarf and the pale skin of Merlin's neck; he knows maybe as well as a physician how tight he can pull it without danger, for completely opposite reasons, and there's something wonderful in using a skill learned to kill for this instead. He lets go, with a half smile, and locks eyes with Merlin, who stares back at him with an anticipation that would be akin to fear if it wasn't for the open trust; Arthur waits, for five quick, over-exited hearth-beats, and repeats the spell.

Merlin actually mutters an insult – tonelessly, but it's familiar enough to Arthur that he can easily read it on his lips – but doesn't hesitate, and hitches a breath as he pronounces the last syllabus of the spell.

This time, as he leans down to kiss him, Arthur is less careful to avoid more contact, lies down upon the other body, but Merlin is almost still beneath him, his lips return the kiss distractedly, most of his attention in every breath he takes, so close to not enough; and Arthur can feel his own tension, pleasant as it is, edge away, there's something oddly comforting about Merlin in such an extreme state of awareness.

Relaxed, he murmurs two other spells against Merlin's lips, softly, one simple and one complex, and Merlin whispers them back at him, their lips grazing as he speaks; the light dims a little, and a faraway scent of grass and earth near a lake fills the room like the very conjuration of a memory.

Arthur closes his eyes and breaths in deeply, and the scent of _Merlin_ is stronger than everything else: sweat and a spell-component Arthur doesn't recognised – a new one, one of his overpowered warlock's experiment, none of which he really needs –, and that absolutely horrible soap he hasn't managed to convince him to stop using; and even as he lays his cheek against Merlin's he can tell he won't be able to hold on to the slowness. The next spell he says has Merlin bucking up against him, warm and needy, before he has even finished repeating it.

He's not the king, at this moment, and Merlin is neither his advisor, and his teacher in some things, nor his officially appointed sorcerer – sometimes he's surprised his father's ghost hasn't risen from the depths of the underworld to come after him –, most ostensibly his subject but also his equal (a living reassurance for the people of the old religion who have still every reason to distrust the son of Uther Pendragon), and who will argue every one of his decisions – as is his duty, as his advisor – and half of his orders – as is, less clearly, his duty as his friend – and who even on a battlefield is more a force of nature that might rise on their side than a soldier bound to obedience. Yet right now, he's only Arthur, and Merlin just Merlin, and he need only ask and empires will fall before him and be brought to his feet, the seas will rise for him as high as mountains to form him a solid palace of water, magic thrown back at him like a powerful echo and spreading out from the man lying beneath him, any wish, any desire he dare speak...

And what he wishes for is for Merlin's right arm to come free, and Merlin tugs at it impatiently before the spell – wordless, this one – takes shape and then buries his freed hand in his hair, on the back of his head, drags him close, and doesn't allow him to break their kiss for an instant while Arthur undoes the knot of the handkerchief with clumsy fingers. Then he sits up and slowly pulls the scarf aside, uncovers Merlin's slender neck like a present that's been hidden away.

"Vanish it," he orders, with a voice rougher than intended, uncontrolled.

"What, complete – ly?" Merlin asks sarcastically – or so Arthur supposes, the tone is nothing but breathless and strained with repressed moans – while trying to drag his head back down and push his body up, both without success.

Arthur narrows his eyes; truth be told, he hadn't thought that far, but if Merlin is going to be like _that_...

"No," he says; Merlin stills under him at the tone, and lets his free hand fall down; Arthur smiles at him in a way he knows probably doesn't look quite as aloofly menacing as intended, sits up, and closes one hand around Merlin's shaft very, very lightly. "Fold it." He moves his thumb up and down faintly. "No words," he adds.

Merlin seems very still, despite the ragged breathing; he swallows, and shoots him a glare from under long eyelashes, which seems to remain fixed on him even as the scarf very slowly hovers into the air and folds itself in jerky, unsteady movements, once, twice, unfolds by half again briskly when Arthur begins to move his hand and hangs there limply by one corner for a moment; four times all in all, before it flies away to the back of the room. Arthur follows the movement with his eyes; when he looks back there's a smile on Merlin's half-parted lips, a little cocky and very tender.


End file.
